


Pretty Little Thrall

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Edited and Posted in 2019, Ironborn Culture, M/M, Slash, Thralls, sibling relationships, written in 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:33:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: Maron Greyjoy does not die in his father's rebellion, so Ned brings him as hostage to Winterfell instead of Theon. Maron, however, is almost a man grown with Iron flowing through his veins. Instead of playing the good hostage, he steals Stark's youngest son in the middle of the night and rides straight to the nearest harbor to catch a ship and sail home.As a result, Robb Stark grows up as a hostage and thrall in the Iron Islands.





	Pretty Little Thrall

**Author's Note:**

> hey so i wrote the bulk of this back in the fall of 2014 but i've been wanting to fix up and post something recently, so i ended up finishing this one up. i've come back to this doc a lot in the past four and a half years, so finally finishing it up, even if it's not great, feels pretty good. one fewer fic to think about in the long hours of the night. 
> 
> other asoiaf fics that i am currently considering writing from scratch include  
> 1\. jaime and cersei swap bodies before the tourney of harrenhal and hoooo boooyyy does that have Implications  
> 2\. time travel fix it fic with catelyn
> 
> if you find yourself interested in one of those concepts. please let me know in the comments!

Surprisingly, Theon’s life does not change much either way after Maron is taken to the Greenlands. Balon does not magically start paying attention to him, even though he’d prayed every night to the Drowned God that he would. Asha, though, is a different story. Balon takes an all new interest in his daughter, though he continues to ignore his youngest son. Theon feels his anger building every time he hears his father praise his sister.

Then, Maron steals a horse and little Robb Stark, hires a few sellswords and commandeers a ship back to the Iron Islands. He’s hailed as a hero back on Pyke, the Greyjoy boy who escaped his bondage in the Greenlands and brought back Stark’s son as a bonus. Maron was taken to Winterfell as a hostage and he brought the heir back as a thrall. It’s supposed to be some sort of poetic revenge, but it doesn’t read much like that when Maron’s a fully grown man and Robb barely comes up to his knees.

Maron Greyjoy’s new thrall is a tiny thing with thick auburn curls. He’s younger than even Theon himself. He still has the arrogant bearing of a lordling, but Theon knows that his older brother will beat it out of him soon enough. Maron takes pleasure in bullying those below him.

Maron scoops him the boy up like he’s nothing. He’s squirming and clawing at him, but Maron slaps him, and the sound reverbs through the room as Maron exits. Theon can hear the boy whimpering. He almost feels bad for the little lordling. Almost. It’s not worth wasting his feelings of sympathy on a Greenlander, not when he still has so few left to give.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The man’s arms are around him but Robb is still struggling. His face burns from the slap, but his throat burns worse from the screaming. This is real. It’s happening. He’s hundreds of miles from home and they’ll never let him return. He might live and die here. They’re calling him a thrall, but he doesn’t even know what a thrall _is_. His throat is burning and he wants nothing more than to scream at his captor, a man he looked at as an older brother for an entire year.

The only retort he can muster is a scream of, “Put me down!” Maron surprisingly obliges him, though not in the way that Robb would have liked. He drops him and Robb becomes an undignified lump on the floor. The collision between his back and the hard floor sends a pain through his spine, and Robb hears himself cry out before he wills himself to do so. Maron laughs. That is enough for Robb to force the pain to the back of his mind and make his way, though it pains him, to his feet.

“You can’t do this to me,” he says, more out of desperation than anything else, “I’m Robb Stark.” No one can do these things to him. His mother and father love him. He’s a Stark, heir to Winterfell even. Maron can’t keep him. He’s too important for that.

“You’re not a Stark,” Maron says, “and you’re not heir to anything. You’re just my thrall.” The confusion once again passes across Robb’s face, because he still doesn’t know what the word means. These men keep saying it, keep calling him it, but he doesn’t understand. Maron sees his confusion, and once again he laughs. Robb is beginning to really hate that sound.

“It means you’re mine,” Maron says in bemusement, “My servant to do with as I please.”

“But-“

“I bought and paid for you by our laws,” he says, “so that makes you mine.” _Slave,_ he finally realizes, thrall means _slave._ Like over in those lands in Essos where they’re barbaric and do things that aren’t allowed here in The Seven Kingdoms where things are good and right.

“I’m not a slave!” Robb shouts, with as much anger as any six year old can muster.

“Of course not,” Maron says, and a heat starts to creep into his tone, a burning, insidious heat, “You’re a _thrall._ I paid the iron price for you, and you’d best learn your place, or I won’t be so easy on you. Maybe I’ll send you down to the mines to teach you some respect.”

“My father was good to you,” Robb says, because he can’t think of anything else. There are so many protestations, so many insults and pleas he could make, but this is the only one that feels alright on his lips.

Maron laughs at that, as he frequently laughs at Robb. He seems to find Robb’s naivety amusing.

“I was a hostage,” Maron says, a sort of morbid levity pervading his tone, “he would have lopped my head off if father rebelled. And if he acts against us now, I’ll return the favor and send him yours. Only fair, don’t you think?” Robb shudders.

“Oh,” Maron says, and his voice almost sounds concerned as he places a hand on Robb’s shoulder, “you’re afraid?” Robb refuses to nod, but apparently, Maron takes his silence as a confession.

“Good,” he says, words and smile both sharp as knives, “You should be.”

 

The clothes they give Robb are scratchy and reek of the briny air, but he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t want to be sent to the mines. The Iron Islands are bad enough when he’s above ground. He doesn’t even want to imagine never seeing the sun again. Robb supposes that he will have to get used to this life. In a twisted, sad way, this is his home now. The thought almost makes him ill.

 

It's only a few months in when Maron decides that he ought to speak more like a proper thrall.

“Call me, mi lord,” Maron demands, pressing his boot into Robb’s chest.

“My lord?” Robb asks, but then the boot digs in so deeply that Robb can no longer breathe.

“Mi,” Maron says, “you’re no lordling anymore. Talk like a servant.”

“Yes, mi lord,” Robb squeaks. He can hear his lady mother chiding him, saying that highborn boys say my lord, never mi, but when he can’t breathe it doesn’t really matter. Maron wants a thrall, and he’ll get one. If saying mi lord is what it takes to get him to stop kicking him so frequently, then Robb will bend on that one.

 

Robb Stark is eight years old now, and nearly all his wide-eyed innocence has been beaten out of him after nearly two years of servitude in the isles. But his ingenuity isn’t dead yet. Or his rebellious streak.

Sometimes he draws Maron lukewarm water for his bath and claims that it was hot when he got it and it must have cooled down. Sometimes he intentionally shrinks things in the wash or drops laundry in disgusting puddles or “loses” favored items while cleaning. These all end with kicks from boots or slaps so hard they leave his head spinning, but they’re worth it. Especially when people take his side. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, Asha really hates Maron. Robb Stark is lying on the ground after a fierce kick to the stomach over some small transgression, and Asha glares at her brother. There’s a difference between being tough and being cruel. Her brother has grown into the latter, and she doesn’t appreciate it.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than bully your thrall?” Asha taunts, “You’re a man grown, Maron.” She doesn’t intend for it to sound teasing. She wants him to feel insulted, guilty even, because what he is doing right now is wrong.

“He’s _my_ thrall,” Maron says curtly, “and I can treat him as I please.”

“He is an eight year old boy,” Asha asserts, “He’s younger than _Theon.”_ But then again, neither age nor blood has ever stopped him from tormenting Theon. But she needs to try. The kid deserves better than this.

“I’m heir to Pyke now,” Maron says with a shrug, “I don’t take orders from you, Asha.” And suddenly, after the two years that Maron’s finally been back, Asha remembers why she never missed him in the first place. He strides out of the room with a large smirk on his face, and Asha considers throwing one of her knives at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone bullies Theon, so it doesn’t surprise Robb that he likes getting to bully the only person beneath him. He bounces from kind and fun to be around to pushing Robb down for kicks. Robb’s willing to brave the situation, because Theon is one of two people in all of Pyke that he can stand, but he wishes that he was just fun and not sometimes a terror. Asha calls him out on it one day, which Robb appreciates.

"Robb gets enough shit from Maron," Asha says, "he doesn’t need you to bully him too."

“Asha,” he says, and the words come out smoothly enough, “I’m just having a bit of fun.”

“That’s what Rodrick used to say when he and Maron would beat you black and blue,” Asha retorts, “and just like you, I can’t always protect him.” And Theon is speechless as she walks away.

Theon stops hurting him, then. It’s just friendly nudges and playfighting- all things Robb doesn’t just tolerate but welcomes. Robb finds himself with two people he can trust instead of just one, and considering his precarious position, it’s the safest he expects he’ll ever feel here in the Islands.

 

There is a distinct smell to the air in the Islands, something hard and salty and harsh. The scent of the air in Winterfell was crisp and fresh and familiar, and Robb finds that he misses it as much as anything else. Except his family, of course. He misses them most of all.

He misses his father’s praises and occasional smiles, and his strong, soothing presence. He misses Jon’s solemn manner and constant company, and the way that they’d run through the woods together, pretending to be wildlings. He misses Sansa’s obsessing over knights and trying to sing all the songs in her small, squeaky voice.

He misses baby Arya and the way that she’d laugh when he made faces at her. But he thinks that he misses his mother most of all. He misses her soft smiles that she always directed at him and his sisters, and her easy words of praise and love.

But he might never see any of them again. He doubts that he’ll ever set foot on the Greenlands (the main land, he reminds himself) again. He might live and die a thrall in Pyke. At least though, he’ll live and die as one with a sword in his hand. He just has to convince someone to teach him.

 

* * *

 

 

Theon Greyjoy is a bit of an outlier among the Ironborn. Tiny, weak, the baby of a set of children all tougher than him and favored over him including a sister. Most of the noble born boys know to avoid him and the bolder ones know that they can bully him. The Greyjoy’s least favorite child is not only an easy target but a fun one, after all.

It’s no wonder that he ends up in the company of his brother’s thrall more often than not. Robb is just about the only person in the castle that he outranks. He’s just about the only person in the castle that doesn’t look down on him. Robb likes him a lot now that he’s not bullying him anymore, which is more than can be said for just about anyone else.

“So I read something interesting yesterday,” Robb says, and Theon groans. Robb has always read something interesting, and normally something that’s interesting to him is terribly boring to everyone else.

Robb continues anyways, as he always does.

“I read that, by law, a thrall can challenge their master to a duel,” he says, and Theon can hear the excitement creeping in, though Robb is clearly trying to fake nonchalance, “and that if the thrall wins, he’s free.” He was trying to be subtle, but Robb is the opposite of subtle. Everyone knows the ways that he sabotages Maron. The only reason he’s been allowed to keep at it is because Maron wants to keep punishing him and the rest of the castle finds the whole matter hilarious.

Theon looks to him in something resembling terror.

The chiding words spring from Theon’s lips immediately, “and if he loses then his sword hand is forfeit.” Robb doesn’t even flinch at his words.

“I want you to teach me how to fight with a sword,” Robb says. His words are soft, and a bit hesitant. It’s a request, of course. Robb’s in no position to be making demands of anyone, but the request is sincere and a little bit desperate. Robb seems to think that this is his only hope, and to be honest, he’s probably right. Theon can’t see Maron shipping his thrall off back to Winterfell to play lord, and the Starks have made no moves against the Greyjoys in Robb’s five years of servitude.

If he doesn’t win his freedom back, it’s likely that Robb Stark will live and die as Maron’s thrall. He knows that Robb has to do this, but the little bit of Theon that’s worried about both their hides has to argue first against the idea first, though.

“What if we get caught?” Theon says.

“No one pays attention to me when I’m done with my chores,” Robb says, “and no one and no one _ever_ pays attention to you. They won’t even notice that we’re gone.” Then, Robb pauses for a moment before he bursts out the heavier weapons.

“Please, Theon,” he pleads. In the end, it’s probably Robb’s pleading blue eyes that make the decision for him.

“Fine,” Theon says, and Robb’s eyes light up with happiness, something that isn’t often present on the boy’s features. Theon feels a momentary impulse to make sure that the boy smiles more often, but he crushes it down. He’s already closer to the boy than he should be, without these ridiculous flights of fancy concerning his emotional state.

 

* * *

 

 

So, in between fighting off his own bullies, Theon teaches him to fight. And kiss. And fuck. He gets better, and better, and better, until Robb thinks he could go raiding and reeving for himself if he wanted to now. At six and ten after three years of training, Robb could be one of the best reevers in Pyke. It’s the first time that he realizes how changed he has been, living in the Iron Islands. Robb Stark, Lordling of Winterfell, would never have considered raiding. He doesn’t remember much about the North, but he knows that they didn’t approve of Iron Way. They would not have abided by him thinking about joining an Ironborn raiding party.

Come to think of it, Robb realizes that he can’t remember much of _anything_ about Winterfell. He can barely recall his mother’s face, and his father’s and Sansa’s are even blurrier. The only face that he remembers clearly is Jon’s. Pyke isn’t home, but he’s beginning to doubt that Winterfell would be either. He stopped being Robb Stark when they ripped him from his home and his culture and his family, but he’s no Ironborn either. He’s a wolf drowning in sea water, and he suspects he’ll be out of place until the day that he dies.

 

He’s eight and ten and he’s one of the best young swordsmen in Pyke. He’s lying with Theon curled up against him, and he realizes something: if he doesn’t act now he never will. He’ll lose his courage. He can already feel the last of his memories of before fading. If he loses his memories, Robb knows that he will lose his drive. Especially when the only pleasant memories that he’ll be left with are of Theon and Asha. He won’t be able to leave them. He vows that he will challenge Maron the next chance that he gets.

He finishes his chores in his normal time that day, then returns to his chambers to retrieve his sword. It’s a god enough sword. The balance fits his hand, and it’s sturdy, Robb knows that it’s nowhere near as nice as the one his father would have ended up getting him, but it’s his. And he’s going to use it to win back his freedom.

 

Robb doesn’t have time to challenge him before things go to shit. Balon dies, and Maron’s men start reeving up the Northern countryside. And the Northerners, of course, fight back. Maron doesn’t come for his head. And doesn’t come for his head. And doesn’t come for his head again. It’s beginning to get a little insulting. It’s not like Robb wants to die, but that is his purpose, is it not? As a hostage, his head is forfeit to his people’s compliance with the Ironborn’s whims. Robb finally comes rearing in, demanding an explanation.

“Why are you not taking off my head?” Robb demands. He doesn’t want to die, but he knows the rules. Northern men fight back against the Ironborn, his head rolls. That was the agreement. Maron rolls his eyes.

 “You’re not a hostage,” Maron says, and Robb thinks that isn’t true. He distinctly remembers Maron telling him that he’d lop his head off if his father marched against him.

“What happens to me, mi lord,” he says, the mi lord hastily and spitefully footnoted at the end.

“My sister and I go off to fight in the North,” Maron says, “and you’ll stay here.” There’s a sort of finality to his statement, as though there’s absolutely no question to his words. Maron is heir apparent, nay, Lord of the Iron Islands. His word is law.

“No,” Robb says. Maron backhands him, and it stings, but he doesn’t let it stop him, because he is about to be as insolent as any thrall can be.

“I challenge you to a duel,” Robb says, and his voice is shaking, but he’s never meant anything more in his entire life. Maron doesn’t even bother to slap him this time. He just laughs.

“I challenged you to a duel,” Robb asserts, “you have to respect my right to a trial by combat. It says so in your own laws.” Maron doesn’t even grace his retort with a response, only another fit of laughter.

“You must accept,” Robb says, “you have to-”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Maron says, “I’m the king of the Iron Islands. The laws bend to my will, not the other way round.”

“A lord should follow his own laws,” Robb says, quoting something his father told him so many years ago.

“I’m not a lord,” Maron says, “I don’t have to let you bet your right hand that you can beat me.”

“You follow the Old Way,” Robb says, “The Old Way gives me that right.”

“I am king,” Maron booms, “and if you challenge me once more I will take a finger on principle.” Maron pauses a moment as a wide smile sprawls across his face.

“You’re still my thrall, after all,” he mocks. And on principle, Robb punches his lord right in the stomach.

Maron Greyjoy does not howl in pain, but he growls his response, “I was going to lock you in your room, but now I think I’ll find you a cell.” Robb stands tall and looks his lord in the eye, though he only wants to cower away.

“If you challenge me again, your right hand will be forfeit,” he says, and his voice is even lower now. Robb feels true, unadulterated fear course through his veins. This is no idle threat, and Robb knows it. A guard takes Robb by the arm, and he can’t even it in him to struggle. 

 

Robb is rotting away in a cell in the darkest, dankest part of Pyke. Theon comes to visit soon enough. They won’t let him in the cell, but no one cares for either the King’s wimpy little brother or his Northern thrall enough to pay attention to them. They sit on opposite sides of the door, Robb glaring at his ugly little chamber pot.

“I’m going to kill him,” Robb promises.

“Kill him?” Theon asks, an uncomfortable chuckle catching in his throat, “you can’t even get out of here.”

“I could with help,” Robb says. He hears Theon move abruptly behind him against the door.

“What?” he hisses, “you want me to- to-“

“To help me escape,” Robb says. He doesn’t bother whispering, since Maron’s men aren’t bothering to listen to them anyway.

“I can’t do that,” Theon says, “Maron’ll kill me twice over. Maybe three or four times, just for good measure. What is dead may never die, but he’ll keep trying.”

“Do you want to stay here?” Robb asks.

“Not really,” Theon admits.

“There’s nothing for you here,” Robb says, “No one respects you half as much as Asha. If they’ll let anyone take over after Maron dies, it’ll be her. Even if they don’t suspect that you helped me.”

“Neither of us really have a place here, do we?” Theon says.

“No, we don’t.” There’s silence for a moment.

“Would I have a place in Winterfell?” Theon asks.

“I don’t know that _I_ would,” Robb admits, “I’m not a proper Northern lord anymore. My family might not want me.”

“Then where will we go?” Theon asks. Theon’s always wanted someone where to belong, wanted people to care that he was there. The idea that maybe even if he left with Robb he still wouldn’t find that is frightening.

“Essos,” Robb suggests, “heard you can make a good living as a sellsword over there. I’m good with a sword and you’re better with a bow.” It wouldn’t be glamorous, but it would be better than being Maron Greyjoy’s thrall and his unwanted baby brother.

“Alright,” Theon says, “we’ll try Winterfell, and then Essos.” If the Starks don’t want them, Essos is a solid bet. But really, this is all assuming that Robb can beat Maron. That he’ll accept the challenge this time. That Maron won’t cut off his finger for insolence and lock him back up until he learns some humility and kill Theon for treason.

 

Theon knocks the guard out then steals the key. He breaks Robb out and then they collect Robb's sword and Theon's bow. Then, and only then, do they go to challenge Maron. 

 

“Hey,” Robb shouts at Maron, lounging on the Seastone Chair, “Maron!” The man doesn’t even seem surprised. He barely shifts position in his chair.

“Robb,” Maron says, “who let you out?” Maron draws his dagger and twirls it around like Sansa used to twirl her hair around her fingers. He looks both comfortable and menacing, lying back and playing with his dagger.

“Come on,” he says, “tell me. Asha, or Theon?” His eyes settle on Theon, standing behind Robb with his bow slung over his shoulder.

“Theon, then. Should have known the weakest brother would side with the Greenlander. You’re half one yourself. Are you sure that you’re not the Starkling’s thrall?” Theon bites his lip so he doesn’t say anything back.

“I challenge you,” Robb says, drawing the sword that Theon stole for him that he's made his own over the years. 

“And I don’t accept,” Maron says, “what part of that didn’t you get?” The men surrounding him laugh. Robb knows that he can’t site laws with Maron, because the other man does not care and neither, apparently, does what passes for his court. But attacking his masculinity? That might work.

“Fight me fair, if you’re a man,” Robb threatens. Maron laughs as he draws his sword.

“Little thrall,” he says, “I’ll make you wish I’d killed you years ago.” Asha rolls her eyes.

“You do that every day, Maron. Come up with something creative.”

"You shouldn't waste your time," Maron drawls, "I would destroy you." 

“Prove it," Robb challenges. The men start to laugh.

“Oi, Maron,” one of them says, pointing at Robb with a look of appreciation, “your thrall’s got a mouth on him.”

“Are you sure you could beat him,” another taunts, “or are you too scared?” The room erupts into laughter, and Maron turns beat red. He sheaths his dagger and stands up immediately.

“I’ll show you fuckers just how a Greyjoy fights,” Maron says. He gestures towards one of the men.

“Queron,” he says, “bring me my sword.” The man nods and scampers off.

“Issue your formal challenge, thrall,” Maron says, grinning widely.

“I challenge you for my freedom,” he says with all the proper, Northern diction that was demanded of him back at Winterfell. Maron laughs.

“And if you lose?” Maron asks.

“My sword hand is forfeit,” Robb says firmly. He refuses to shudder in the face of a challenge he’s been preparing for so long.

He manages a grin, like the sort that Asha does when she’s challenging Maron, “But I won’t lose.”

“You sound like a lordling again already, eh?” Maron shakes his head. “It’s no matter, I’ll beat it out of you again.” Maron spares a glance back to Theon, and it turns quickly to a glare.

“When he loses, I’m taking your hand as well. Only fair, considering you’re the one who put him up to this.” Theon doesn’t say anything but manages to keep his icy glare. That glare looks fit for a Northman. Perhaps he’ll actually find a home in Winterfell. Queron comes back a moment later with Maron’s sword. It’s not ornate, the way that Robb’s father’s sword was, but there is a bit of gold at the bottom and a few black stones to show that it belongs to a Greyjoy.

Their swords meet in the middle, and then they clash. It’s a hard fight and Robb gets scratched up, but in the end, he wins and Maron lies bleeding out on his own castle floor. There’s coughing and there’s sputtering and there’s men shouting. One leans down to check Maron’s vitals once he finally stops coughing.

“He’s dead,” he says, “or close enough. Another one of them grabs Robb by the arm and demands that they arrest him.

“Maron died by our own laws,” Theon says, “Robb didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a free man now.” The men around them glare, but they don’t look ready to spring on them and kill them or anything. It’s just a general discontent, but Robb thinks it could grow into a murderous frenzy any time soon. Asha comes up behind him and claps a hand on his shoulder.

“You two need to leave,” Asha says, “now. I don’t know how long they’ll hold off.” Robb nods.

“You can take my smallest vessel,” she says. Then she looks like she’s thinking for a moment.

“Do you know where you’re going?” 

“Winterfell,” Theon says. Asha laughs, a brilliant smile lighting up her face.

“Drowned God,” she says, “they’ll be happy to see you.” Then she looks at Robb for a moment.

“They might not even pleased to see _you._ You're not their proper little lordling anymore. You’re Iron Forged.” 

“If they don’t want us, we’ll sail to Essos,” Robb says.

“Might want to start there,” Asha says, “think they’re as like to lop off Theon’s head as let you bring him into the castle.”

“But he didn’t _do_ anything to them,” Robb says.

“And you didn’t do anything to us,” Asha says, “seems revenge never lands on the person it should.” After that, Theon and Asha share something that might resemble a hug if it weren’t so fierce and almost violent, and then they’re off to the ship. Asha’s men believe them when he says she was lending it to them, and then Robb sets the course for Winterfell. He hopes it’s not a mistake. He stands out on the deck, breathing in the briny ocean air for what might be one of the last times.

“Do you think they’ll want me back?” Robb asks.

“You’re their heir, of course they will," Theon says. Robb shakes his head, and his long hair gets caught up in the wind.

“No, not their heir. Me. Robb. Whatever it is I’ve become in the Isles.” He’s not a true Northerner anymore after all these years in the Islands. He’s not a true lordling, after all these years treated as a thrall. He doesn’t know if they’ll want the half-wild pirate thrall that he’s become.

“Well,” Theon says, “I don’t know on that one. Depends on if they loved you for you then.” It’s been years and years and Robb was only a little boy. A boy of six is far different than a boy of eight and ten. He always felt loved, but he doesn’t know if that will translate well after ten years. He just doesn’t know much at all.

 

 

After weeks of traveling, they finally make it to Winterfell. He looks upon the castle of his youth, and he can feel memories flooding back to him. For a moment, he wonders how his life would be different if Maron hadn’t kidnapped him, but he forces the thoughts away. He can’t spend his life dwelling on what-ifs. He has to keep moving forward, and the best place to start is to cross the bridge and enter the halls of Winterfell.

They are of course, apprehended by guards as soon as they enter. Robb isn’t sure why he expected anything different.

“Warm welcome they’re giving you,” Theon mumbles. Robb tries to muster up the energy to glare at him, but he can’t find it. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for either. And thinking now, he’s worried. When he was taken from Winterfell, he was a tiny boy of six. Now he is eight and ten, a man grown, and he’s unsure either of his parents will recognize him. He still has his mother’s auburn hair, his father’s facial shape, and his mother’s bright blue eyes though. Perhaps that will be enough for them to look at him and know he was once the little boy they lost.

When they drag him into the great hall it looks exactly as he remembers it was. It seems that nothing has changed. He can hear Maron’s voice taunting him, “You’re not Robb Stark. You’re not heir to Winterfell. You’re just my thrall.” He pushes the thoughts away. Now he’s in his father’s hall, staring at the enormous wolf sigil above him, and he knows better. His father has aged a lot in the past thirteen years, wrinkles creeping onto his face and grey creeping into his hair. He still looks as stern as Robb remembers, but he can see the kindness buried deep in his father’s grey eyes.

“Who are you?” his father demands. His mother is looking at him less skeptically, like she’s just figured out who he is. Sansa and Arya both look almost like women grown, and there’s two little boys who look just like him trailing after them. He doesn’t even know his brothers’ names.

“My name’s Robb Stark,” he says. It sounds odd to his own ears, but right. He hasn’t said his own name in years.

“Robb?” His father asks, both disbelief and hope in his tone.

“Let him go!” his mother orders the guards, “that is my son!” The guards release their hold and his mother rushes forward, pulling him into a big, warm hug. It feels so nice, so right. He feels something warm deep within himself. Sansa’s face is lit by the biggest smile.

“Robb,” she says, and it sounds so sure, like she always knew he’d come back. Robb appreciates that. The black-haired girl, Arya, quirks her lips in a smile.

“I’m guessing this is Robb,” she says with a hint of amusement in her tone, and she tips her head in Theon’s direction, “but who is that.”

Theon looks terribly uncomfortable, but with false bravado he says, “I am Theon Greyjoy.” His mother stiffens, and his father looks as though this, whatever he thinks it is, was inevitable.

“What do you want, Greyjoy,” his mother demands, “Gold? Lands?”

His father scowls, “You won’t get anything from us. I’ll have your head for the years you held my son hostage.”

“I’m not his jailor,” Theon says in disbelief, “Your son’s a free man.”

“A free man,” his father says skeptically.

“I defeated Maron Greyjoy in a trial by combat,” Robb says, “by the laws of the Ironborn, that makes me a free man.” 

“They have specific laws regarding hostages?” his mother asks, “that seems strange.”

“No,” Robb says, breath hitching, “they don’t.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“They have specific laws regarding thralls,” Robb says cautiously.

"What is a thrall?" his mother asks, and his father and siblings seem equally confused.

"It doesn't matter," Robb says, "I'm back now, aren't I?" It's better this way, that they don't know what happened to him in the Isles. They don’t want it coming out in front of the whole court that Robb spent thirteen years as a slave in the Greyjoy household.

 

When Robb finally learns why Jon wasn't in attendance when he got back, he feels his heart sink. Jon has already gone North and joined the Night’s Watch, so Robb’s first and closest childhood companion is completely beyond his reach. He missed his brother like crazy over the years and now he doesn't even get to see him. At least his parents allow Theon to stick around. And being able to see his parents and his sisters is nice.

Getting to know his two little brothers is a joy. Bran and Rickon are both wild, playful boys. Rickon is six. Robb wonders if that’s what he looked like, back when Maron dragged him to the Iron Islands. Back when he dropped him onto the cold, stone floor and dug his boot into his chest and demanded he do his chores or suffer. Maron, really, was a special kind of fucked.

 

 

There’s something about the air here that doesn’t feel right. It’s chilly and light and has the faintest smell of pine. It isn’t heavy and doesn’t even smell faintly of salt, and Robb finds that he doesn’t like it. That’s when he realizes that the North isn’t truly home anymore, just like he'd feared. It hasn’t been for a long time. He finds the thought terribly depressing, and he feels anger building in his belly. The Iron Islands were never his home, and he shouldn’t find himself thinking of them that way. No matter how much he loves Theon or how much he misses Asha, he was a thrall there. Here he’s a free man. And his father still wants him to be a lord, but Robb isn’t sure that he can handle that. He isn’t even sure that he _wants_ that.

Lord Stark sure tries, though. According to all laws, Robb should inherit before Bran, though Bran seems a far more suitable candidate to rule. Bran has never spent years being beaten around by Maron Greyjoy’s pleasure. He’s never been forced to wash another man’s socks and call him mi lord, or forced to kill him in cold blood just to get away from that. Bran’s highly skilled and better at court than Robb is, so he thinks that all laws should be damned and the kid should inherit before him. It’s a bit like how Asha was better suited for the Seastone Chair than either of her brothers, though Robb would never actually tell Theon that. It would just be rubbing salt in a wound that might never heal over.

 

He says, “I guess now you have to call me mi lord” once, and Theon laughs before punching him straight in the gut. It doesn’t hurt much. It just shows that Theon’s pissed, which is understandable. 

Robb thinks that Theon’s a little happy here, but not happy enough. It's almost a home, but not quite. Maybe they’re just both cursed to never quite fit in, a kraken runt and a half-drowned wolf. A failed pirate prince and a thrall masquerading as a lord.

 

Catelyn watches Robb whenever she can. He talks with the girls, telling stories she’s never heard and teaching Arya dirty little songs she’s sure he got in the Islands. He plays little rough games with the boys that she knows he didn’t get here in Winterfell. He’s always easy and gentle with them when they're not playing, and Catelyn can tell that he cares for all of them a lot, despite the way they play their games.

He’ll speak with her or Ned, but he’s always more awkward with them. She thinks he’s afraid they’ll judge him, and maybe he’s right. They both still want him to be Lord of Winterfell someday, and Robb keeps telling them that he can’t- that he’s no longer fit. Sometimes he'll slip into that uneducated, Ironborn dialect that's rife with ayes and cursing. Even when he says it in the words of the Ironborn, his refusal sounds ridiculous to Catelyn. He’s still their firstborn, no matter where he spent some of his life, but Robb insists and insists that he cannot be lord. He forgoes his lessons to swap gossip with Sansa and her friends like he’s used to gossiping with women or go riding with _Theon Greyjoy._

Robb loves his siblings, that much Catelyn can tell, but she doesn’t think he’ll ever be as close to them as he is to the Greyjoy boy. The two laugh together more often than not, exchanging inside jokes and familiar touches like brothers or best friends or something in between. Soon enough, Catelyn realizes that she doesn’t really know her son, not anymore, and she and her family will never know him as well as the Greyjoy boy knows him. It lights a fire of anger in her heart at Maron Greyjoy all over again. She knows that Robb already killed him, but she wants to kill Maron all over again for taking her son’s childhood away from them and giving it to Theon instead. She hates that Maron boy for taking her son and making him not quite a Stark. 


End file.
